Also by Natasha Sinel
The Fix
Copyright © 2018 by Natasha Sinel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].
Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Kate Gartner
Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3118-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3120-2
Printed in the United States of America
For Andy, who has enough determination and strength to light up the sky
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Acknowledgments
ONE
Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.
—Mark Twain (writer)
My trusted local storm channels, sites, and blogs all lied. Even the big ones like weather.com, and Weather Underground. They all said overcast with a slight chance of showers, which is typical for early April on the Cape. Nothing about a storm.
But they were wrong. The sky suddenly turns dark gray, almost purple, and I can smell the moisture in the air, not just from the bay but also from the soaked heaviness of the thunderstorm on its way.
Even though I should know better now—that it won’t change anything, that it’s probably hopeless, that none of it makes sense anymore—my body feels the familiar rush anyway.
I try to ignore it by focusing on the sealed cardboard box I lugged out to the deck. I wipe a spiderweb off the label that reads FOR NAOMI FERGUSON’S EYES ONLY. Although I am not Naomi Ferguson, everyone tells me I have my mother’s eyes, so I figure it’s within my rights to open the box. On the other hand, according to mythical wisdom, nothing good ever comes from opening a box not meant for you. That’s why I’m hesitating.
I sit on the edge of the lone lounge chair, its faded fabric worn and ripped down the center, and look out at the bay. In this light, the water is a soft gray with touches of white where the breeze makes a spray. A few cormorants swoop down to catch their late afternoon snack. A salty-sweet mist settles gently over my skin. Mom and I have been living in Wellfleet for almost three years already, but I’m still in awe every time I look outside—the wide yawn of the bay, smooth tan sand, clumps of tall green grasses swaying. The breeze blows the low-tide marshy stink over from the other side of the road, but even the smell feels new and promising. Like nature—mud and grass and life.
I assess the small side deck for anything that needs to be repaired. I’ll have to pull the thorny vines that grow through the cracks of the planks and replace a few rusty nails that poke up but nothing major. The garage itself, though, is a dusty, smelly wreck; the concrete floor is an obstacle course of rusted garden equipment and mildewed boxes that have never been cleared out after my grandfather, whom I never met, died and left the beach house to Mom and me. It’s going to take even longer than I thought to clean it out and make it into my bedroom. And the sliding door to the deck is off its track and warped so badly, I’ll probably have to replace it entirely, and that will cost big bucks.
The separate entrance is one of the reasons I want to move into the garage. I can come home without having to talk to anyone. Day or night, I’m never sure who will be in the house at any given moment: no one, just Mom, or any number of the members from her lightning-strike survivors support group. Before we lived here, I used to love when it was time for meetings, when everyone would be at our place. We moved around so much, but the survivors came no matter where we were. When they were all with us, I’d imagine this was what it was like for normal kids who had families. I’d imagine the meetings were like other people’s Thanksgivings—big gatherings with aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents.
But now, the days when people are around seem to far outnumber the days it’s just Mom and me. Since we live on the beach now, the survivors are willing to travel farther to get to us and stay longer.
“Oh, I decided to make it a vacation,” they say. “I’ll just find a hotel—oh, no, I don’t want to impose. Really, I can’t accept. Oh, well that’s so sweet. Maybe just for a night or two.” But it’s never just a night or two.
Right now, though, the house is unusually quiet. Mom’s at work and the others are wherever they are when they’re not at our house.
I try gently lifting one of the flaps on the top of the box. If it comes up without the need for a knife or a pair of scissors to slice through the packing tape, then I will consider that to be a sign to look inside.
A sudden flash out of the corner of my eye makes me freeze.
I want so badly to resist, but the compulsion to go after it is still too powerful.
I grab the box, put it back in the corner of the garage where I found it, then go down the hall to my room. I knock over the pile of renovation books for dummies and idiots. FLASH. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thous—CRASH. Less than a mile. I’m breathing fast, panicking that I’ll miss it. I pull a pair of steel-toed boots on over my bare feet and yellow and pink–flowered pajama bottoms and stomp around until I finally find the golf umbrella I’d shoved in the back of my closet. I haven’t done this since before Reed came to town.
As I limp down the front steps, nearly tripping over the pointy toes of my boots, my mind is spinning, unable to land on a decision. Should I go to the tall pine on the MacPhersons’ hill? Or should I go down to the bay? I remember that a few of the beach steps are missing after a couple of brutal high tides, and the last thing I need is to fall down another set of stairs. I run as fast as my sore legs will take me down the crushed-shell driveway, thankful that Mom’s out. She’d want to lock me in my room if she knew I was leaving the house in a thunderstorm.
The rain hasn’t started yet, but the sky is even darker
than it was a few minutes earlier. Ominous and overbearing. Exhilarating. I run on the dirt road in my clunky boots to the MacPhersons’ side yard and then up the hill to the small grassy area with a lone tall pine tree. I’ve been in this exact spot so many times these past three years, sometimes I wonder if the tree recognizes me. Just as I get to it, I see another flash of light.
One-one thousand, two-one thousand—CRASH. I haven’t been this close in so long. Before Reed came, the storms were infrequent and short-lived, and nothing ever seemed to come close enough for me to have a real chance. When I was with Reed, I didn’t pay much attention to the weather. I thought I’d never need to again.
The rain starts. A few big fat drops first, and then all at once. Another flash. One-one thousand, two—CRASH. Yes! I open the umbrella and stand under the tree. Waiting. Now the rain comes down in sheets. The gutters at the house a few yards away spill over like a faucet. I stand still and close my eyes, trying to calm myself, to become the perfect conduit, to will it to me.
The healed wounds on the backs of my thighs itch and tingle as I wait, reminding me that I’ve been so stupid, so naive. I picture Reed’s contrite expression just before I fell. I imagine the conversation he must have had with Mom while I was in the hospital, right before he left town more than a month ago.
“You should go,” Mom would have said. “You and Rachel aren’t meant for each other.”
“Tell me who is meant for me,” Reed might have said.
And then maybe Mom did. Even though she swears she won’t tell people who their soul mates are anymore, maybe she did just this once. Or maybe she told him who mine is—maybe someone, maybe no one, but not him. Definitely not him.
Mom can’t help knowing what she knows about soul mates. But she says the information she carries is a double-edged sword. It has the power to ruin lives, and she never wants to be in a position to ruin my life. So, she’s trained herself not to see who my soul mate is. I’ve never understood how she can do that. If the information appears to her, how can she control whether she sees it? I used to wonder if closing her eyes to it made her blind to other things about me, too.
A flash lights up the entire sky. A millisecond later, the crash of thunder, deafening, earth-shaking. I watch the afterglow of the lightning slice through the sky to the bay, spreading, stretching its fingers out to as many places as possible. As the thunder moves away, its rumblings a little quieter, farther apart, I drop the umbrella, collapse on the ground, and put my head between my knees. I chose the wrong spot.
I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting there when a car pulls up. It could’ve been a minute or an hour.
“Hey!” I barely hear the shout over the pounding rain.
TWO
A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.
—Jim Morrison (musician)
For a second, I hate Jay for finding me like this, like an addict caught in a relapse. But when I fold up my umbrella and get in the car, my clothes and hair dripping as though I’ve been for a swim, he doesn’t say anything.
The rain rat-tat-tats its drumbeat on the roof.
“Nice outfit,” he says, gesturing toward my pajama pants tucked into my boots.
“How’d you know I was here?” I ask.
“I didn’t. I was on my way to Comma.”
Jay, Serena, and I started calling the unnamed little curve of sand at the end of my road Comma Beach a few months after I moved here. It became our place. Serena and I snuck out and had our first beer there, and our first cigarette (and for sure, our last, based on the amount of coughing and spitting we did). The three of us made it a tradition to go to Comma loaded up with blankets, snacks, and drinks to watch meteor showers in the summer. On a clear day, you could see all the way to Provincetown. And on a day like this, you couldn’t see anything but water and sky. No houses, nothing man-made. For a few minutes, you could imagine you were the only people on earth.
Jay puts the car in gear and drives to Comma Beach. The rain has let up, the sky is a shade lighter, and thunder rumbles in the distance.
When he turns the ignition off, everything is silent other than the soft pitter-patter of the subsiding rain. Jay never plays music in the car—he says it’s too distracting, that he pictures each instrument playing its part, and it feels like there’s a band performing live right in front of his eyes.
Even though Serena’s my best friend, I met Jay first.
When Mom and I moved to Wellfleet just before the start of ninth grade, I was so excited to explore my new and hopefully permanent town. We’d been moving around for years—never in one place for more than nine months—but when my grandfather died and left the beach house to us, Mom decided it was time to settle down so I could stay in one place for high school. I suspected that Mom had “settled down” not just for me, but for her lightning-strike survivors group so there would be more room for them to stay.
I’d found Mom’s old bike in the garage, and our neighbor tuned it up for me. As I rode down the curvy roads sprinkled with sand, I saw the summer people packing up their cars and locking up their houses. I’d never been a townie in a seasonal place before, but I was getting a sense of how it felt. Half relief that things would quiet down and half melancholy at being left behind. Abandoned for a different life, like we were just a quick treat. A once-in-a-while kind of thing, but not enough to keep on permanently. I’d been the equivalent of summer people in the places we’d lived before. Everyone had their lives and their history, but I was just coming through, never staying long enough to settle in. But now, I was the townie, and I was staying.
It was just a week before Labor Day, and the days were getting shorter and cooler. I’d gotten jelly donuts and decided to ride to the ocean side of town. I only had a few more days to be spontaneous and do whatever I was in the mood for at any moment. After that, I’d have schedules, homework, and new weather patterns to learn. As I rode, I smelled the ocean air and wondered if it would smell different in the winter.
I didn’t bother locking my bike when I got to White Crest Beach. The parking lot was practically empty. The view from the top of the huge dune was amazing—the gray-green ocean stretched all the way to meet the gray-blue sky, and the waves crashed noisily and repetitively on the shore. I took my sneakers and socks off and went down the dune with my paper bag full of jelly donuts. The sun hadn’t had a chance to warm the sand yet, so it was still cool from the night.
I sat near the water, the breeze pulling strands of hair out of my ponytail.
A few people on the beach sat looking at the water or walking. It wasn’t time for sunning and swimming. I’d never realized how perfect the beach was when it was empty. Quiet, peaceful, smooth.
A lone figure walked along the water. As he got closer, I saw how big he was, almost like a giant, but I could tell by his face that he was about my age.
His lips were moving, but he didn’t seem to have a phone or anything. He was talking to himself. As he got closer, I heard him.
“Sacrotuberous,” he said. “Sacrospinous.”
He was directly in front of me at the water’s edge now.
“Hi,” I said.
He held up one finger.
“Inferior pubic, superior pubic, suspensory ligament of the penis.”
He let out a satisfied breath.
I stared at him.
“Did you just say penis?” I asked. This guy, tall and big with messy brown hair and deep brown eyes was cute, but he’d just said the word penis to himself.
“The pelvic ligaments,” he said, like it was obvious.
“Okaaaay … ” I said, drawing out the word.
He smiled and it lit up his face, a small barely there dimple on the right side of his mouth, but he didn’t look into my eyes. It was like a shy, flirty smile, but I didn’t get the sense that he was flirting with me at all.
“You’re the girl who moved into the Ferguson house.”
I nodded. I noticed the way his eye
s flicked at me and then away quickly every couple of seconds.
“How’d you know that?” I asked.
“We saw you and your mom driving through town the other day. My mom recognized her.”
“Our moms know each other?” I asked. I wondered whether they knew each other from when Mom lived here. She never talked about anyone from those days. I knew next to nothing about my grandfather, and even less about Carson—her soul mate, my father—who died before I was born.
“I guess they met at the high school orientation thing for parents, or whatever.”
“Oh, okay. So you go to Nauset?” I asked.
“Yeah. Yay.” Sarcasm.
“Not a fan of school?” I asked.
“Nope. And school is not a fan of me.”
“I have a feeling I’m in the same boat,” I said. “I’m Rachel, by the way. You’ll be a freshman, too?”
He nodded, but he didn’t offer up his name. He stood still for what seemed like forever without saying anything. The silence didn’t seem to bother him at all. But I was getting uncomfortable.
“Want some jelly donut?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I handed him the bag of what was left of the donuts.
“I guess I’ll see you in school next week,” I said as I started toward the dune.
He was digging into the bag at that point, so he nodded his head as if to say, “Yeah, okay, see ya.”
I didn’t find out his name—Jay Harwell—until school started, when the teacher called attendance in World History—the one class we shared.
We stay in the car, parked in front of Comma, and stare straight ahead at the gray water and the grayer sky. I wait for Jay to say something. It’s a game I like to play with myself, like chicken. Loser breaks first.
I always lose chicken.
“Are you going to tell Serena about this?” I ask, gesturing in the general direction of the MacPhersons’ tree where he found me.
He doesn’t look at me, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens.
“Not if you don’t want me to,” he says finally.
“Thanks,” I say. “I just—I’m just trying to figure things out.”
Soulstruck Page 1